He wears a frayed tweed jacket of earth,
black glasses; opaque mirrors
reflecting nothing.
He wraps cut flowers into bunches,
sells them sightlessly to a brown-eyed goddess
in a midnight dress.
Here is the world of we seeing and we blind;
Its soft petals, its nagging thorns:
I never asked her name though her smile begged me try.
We are all counting roses by touch.
YOU ARE READING
Transmissions to the Mystic Nebula
PoetryIn the not-to-distant future, a cyber-poet seeking to find his place in the universe initiates several unauthorized communications to a mysterious cosmic phenomenon. Want your own copy? Transmissions is now available on Amazon: https://tinyurl.com/2...
